


Beyond Belief

by Whreflections



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Daemons, Implied Torture, M/M, References to Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and his king cobra daemon, Maj, came to SHIELD after a life that took them from the circus to assassins to the clutches of a villain they didn't yet know. It's been a hard road and they've never met anyone they could trust, not until they meet Phil Coulson and Ilsae.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So when I started this, I knew next to nothing about His Dark Materials. We were reading the first HDM book in my Children’s Lit class and this prompt came up on the kinkmeme and I flailed and somehow wrote Clint/Coulson for the first time, at a time when I didn’t really ship them. Now, I hardcore ship them…and I still know little about HDM verse beyond the first book, but I’m doing my best. 
> 
> This fic is mostly pre-canon, and it’s slightly AU too as in addition to the HDM-ness of it, I’ve messed around some with Clint’s history.

They shouldn’t fit. They  _shouldn’t_. It was obvious, blatant in every respect, but when most of your life consists of insanity anyway, things like typical constraints cease to matter a little.   
  
When they first met, Maj couldn’t have made her feelings on the introduction any more clear. She hissed, curled tightly around Clint’s leg and let her hood flare as she leaned out from his thigh.   
  
“ _Behave_.” As he murmured to her his fingers brushed the back of her head, a caress as much as it was a reminder. He can’t blame her for it, knows she hates cats ever since that time in Bangkok with the ocelot that left the scars she bears on her side.   
  
At Coulson’s feet, Ilsae returns the hiss in feline form, pressed up against his legs. Her whiskers were just a little more puffed with attentiveness, taking everything in. They’ve seen a lot, her and Coulson, but she’d never seen a king cobra before. For all she knew, hissing was  _exactly_  the right response to have.   
  
The minute their hands touched, the hissing stopped. It was brief, a touch of hands, an introduction, a welcome and a mission, but it silenced the space between. Still, Maj didn’t lower her hood, didn’t relax, kept her eyes on the treacherous cat.   
  
Ilsae tried to bridge  _something_ , anything. She eased a little out of her crouch, ears perking.   
  
Maj slid higher up Clint’s body just in case she tried to come any closer. She didn’t like to be touched then, not even by other daemons. After the life they’ve lived, it was Clint’s touch alone that she trusted, in those days.   
  
When they left, Clint tried to talk to her.   
  
“I’m going to have to work with him, you know. It might not kill you to make a friend.”   
  
She draped across his shoulders, nuzzled up under his ear before she spoke.   
  
“Did you know cats kill their prey by severing the vertebrae? Precision strike.” Her tongue flicked, tasting the air, hating that in the place they’d come to it seemed they spent so much time underground. “Clint, I like my head attached.”   
  
\----------------  
  
The next time they met it only went marginally smoother. Maj didn’t flare, just wound herself around Clint’s shoulders possessively, high enough to keep her out of reach of any questing paws but keeping herself in sight enough to maintain a presence. It surprised her a little to see that it hardly mattered.   
  
Ilsae acted for all the world like she couldn’t be bothered, sprawled across Coulson’s desk with her big feet resting on a file embossed with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo. Her ears barely twitched, only one eye cracked open. She watched without a word, something contemplative in that single amber eye. For all people claim that bobcats are barely larger than their domestic cousins, Ilsae looked somehow too big for the space and deceptively strong. In that, Maj could read only danger. When Clint didn’t stay long, she couldn’t have been happier.   
  
“Seriously, Maj, you’re gonna have to get over this. He seems pretty decent.”   
  
“Yes, I’m sure the man who practically pressganged us into a secret organization is utterly legitimate.”   
  
Clint laughed, short and sharp, reached up to trail his fingers across her scales to soothe her. “The man deserves a shot, that’s all I’m saying. We’re supposed to be the good guys, remember?”   
  
“I’ll reserve judgment on where he deserves that shot, thanks. And I’d thank  _you_  to keep your bow ready.” Maj tightened around him, knocked her nose up under his chin. “Sometimes I shudder to think what the hell would happen to us without me.”   
  
It was true, really. Even after everything, sometimes Clint wanted to trust. He needed her there to remind him every reason why he couldn’t, why distance was all that kept them alive. Clint thinks of so much in terms of strategy, of fighting and attack and things he knows, and he knew that in some ways, Maj had a point. Once you let someone walk up to you, it’s a lot harder to get the room to draw on them if you need to fire.   
  
\-----------------  
  
It doesn’t take that much longer for Maj to realize that they’re going to have to have a serious discussion.   
  
They’re at headquarters after a mission in Phoenix, killing time in a room empty but for Coulson and single guard he’s talking through a new aspect of the alarm system. Ilsae is pacing, something in her still soft tread on the metal looking more impatient than Maj his ever seen, but there is an undeniable beauty to the motion. She is a mystery, with a quiet power that Maj has never seen her throw around, only hinted at through the play of muscles under a sleek coat and the memory of a hiss on the first day they met.   
  
It’s not until Clint nudges her that she even realizes how far she’s slithered away from him, how she’s dangling off the edge of the table as her eyes track the bobcat’s paces. When the tip of the arrow Clint’s working on nudges her tail, she jerks.   
  
“Go on. Go say hello.”   
  
Maj hisses, hood half flared at his idiocy. Sometimes, she thinks he doesn’t think at all and she’s the only one that got the brains. “Don’t be stupid. I was just-“  
  
“You know, you’re a horrible liar. In case you’ve never realized that.” His eyes aren’t on her anymore, on the work of his hands instead. Just like always, he knows there are times she needs not to be stared at. “Maj, she won’t hurt you. Will you just go say hello so I can have one person that doesn’t know me as the guy with the daemon that hates everyone?”   
  
“You’re hilarious.”   
  
“And you’re still watching.”   
  
She was; she couldn’t look away. Ilsae leaped gracefully onto an unused computer console, springing lightly up onto the top of the casing from there. Miraculously, her gigantic feet had pushed nothing, as if she weighed no more than air.   
  
If she curled around the chair, kept enough empty air between them that she could strike if she needed to…  
  
“I’m only doing this to shut you up.”   
  
“I feel honored.”   
  
Ignoring him, she eased down to the metallic floor with a soft thud. The steel was horribly unpleasant against her belly, cold and distracting, and when she made it over to the wooden chair she molded gratefully around it, flowing up it like water to rest her head on the top rung. Across from her, the bobcat cocked her head.   
  
“Well hello. I’m Ilsae.”   
  
“I’ve heard him talk to you.” It comes out shorter than even she exactly means to, and she hisses at herself a little in frustration. The cat is patient. “Its Maj.”   
  
“Maj.” Her voice is warm when she says it, as if she’s fascinated, as if every last bit of the aloof disinterest was merely an elaborate show. That should be comforting, and somewhere deep down it sort of is, but mostly, Maj only registers the deception. The wildcat stretches, slow and deliberate, and she tilts her head at the spot where she had just been sitting. “Do you want to join me?”   
  
“I’m good here, thanks.” More than good, nice and safe and separate, and she steals a quick look back at Clint. He isn’t far away, but without the warmth of his skin against her, she feels vulnerable. “So…” She isn’t sure of a topic exactly when she starts, but at even this small semblance of conversation, the cat’s ears perk up in interest. It’s enough to spur her to cast around for  _something_  to say. “How long have you two been working in this coffin?” She’ll never get used to being underground, she thinks. She  _hates_  it.   
  
Across the room, Clint watches her, something in his chest warming when she doesn’t flee back to safety. It’s been a long time since she had a friend, since back when they worked the circus together and she changed freely, hawk or red panda or scorpion or snake her most common aspirations. She made friends not quite easily then but easi _er_ , and their lives weren’t full of quite so many secrets. A great deal has happened in between, and he’d started to wonder if they’d both lost the ability, if it even mattered quite as much as he tried to tell her it did, because really, who did they need outside of each other?   
  
“I’m sorry, that took longer than I expected.”   
  
Coulson’s voice catches him a little off guard, and he looks up, something in him jolting a little. “It’s alright. Not like I’m goin’ anywhere. Yet.” There’s something about the set of the man’s shoulders that’s different, tense and unfamiliar, and Clint stretches out on his own limbs. “Look like you’ve had a hell of a time.”   
  
Something of a smile tugs at the corners of Coulson’s lips, and he draws out his own chair to take a seat across the table. “You could say that.”   
  
…and he could say a whole lot more, because that’s not much for Clint to go on. He picks up the arrow he was fletching and gets back to his work. “What’s the trouble?” His eyes flickered up, barely meeting Coulson’s for a heartbeat. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir.”   
  
He hesitates, but then it doesn’t seem that he does, because suddenly they’re talking about Tony Stark and how he’s an overgrown child and a liability and they  _can’t_  have in the organization but he’s clearly up to something so they can’t leave him out, and as they ramble on it gets easier and easier to look him in the eye.   
  
His attention only strays when he hears Maj laugh from her perch in the corner. He can’t remember the last time she laughed for anyone other than him.   
  
\-----------------------  
“-I mean it, Clint, this is dangerous, we…are you even listening to me? You’re not, are you?”   
  
“Shhh.” Clint’s thumb trails lovingly over the inside of his compound bow, his eyes trained hard on the fenceline he’s watching. In the beginning especially he understood little of what he was doing for S.H.I.E.L.D. exactly beyond the fact that he was doing the world a service, but the more time goes on the more Coulson trusts him with bits and pieces, and this guy he’s watching for is a real piece of work; he knows that for a fact. Once he’s got a shot he’s taking it, and then they’ll be off back to a place he’s trying hard not to call home. Mostly because Maj gets excessively agitated when he does. “Can we just do this job? Quietly?”   
  
“You’re louder than I am.” Her whispered voice is petulant, and she hisses briefly as she flicks the tip of her tail against his leg. “Just admit it. You like him.”   
  
“It’s not a crime.” Clint’s lips barely move to get the words out, more careful than he had been when he’d shushed her. She might have been acting like an irritated child, but she had a point. Her words had been quieter than his. “And don’t tell me you don’t like him; I know you do.” Before he’d left for this mission, he’d stopped by to pick up a stash of arrows, and he’d seen Coulson having breakfast in his office. Maj hadn’t shown the first sign of alarm, had instead flicked her tongue casually in greeting before tucking her face in shyly against Clint’s neck, as if her own lack of fear frightened her in all new ways.   
  
“Even if I…that’s even worse!” There’s genuine worry there, he feels in everything from her very emotions themselves to the way she constricts around him. “We should leave. Ok? We kill this son of a bitch and then we leave and we go where no one knows us, maybe even join a circus again, something simple, something hidden, alright?”   
  
“We’re not leaving. It’s a good place, it’s good work, and besides, he-“  
  
Below, the door of the guard shack opens, their mark walking out with a single bodyguard into what he doesn’t quite think is the open, protected behind his fence. From the tree they’re in, it’s no problem at all. In the excitement of the moment everything else is forgotten, Maj twisting up his body to line her eyes up with his, sighting the shot with him. Two shots, because they won’t line up just right for him to do it any other way. Not that it matters, really, because the decision and shots included still take him only heartbeats. They fall quietly, satisfyingly quietly.   
  
Clint shoulders his bow. “Come on. Time to go.” Distracted by the action, or maybe finally almost ready to concede at least temporary defeat, Maj doesn’t argue.   
  
\-----------------------  
  
Clint knocks on Coulson’s door, though it’s already standing open and he’s already easing up to lean against the frame. Coulson crumples the paper he had in his hands, keeps it crushed there against his palm as he looks up. In the corner Ilsae is agitated, growling under her breath though she straightens at the sight of them, the frustrated hunch easing a little out of her shoulders.   
  
“Barton. Back already.”   
  
“Sorry. Too efficient for you?”   
  
“I’d be thrilled if that was the height of this organization’s problems.”   
  
Clint knows a little about that, at least. At the Dallas airport on a layover he saw Stark on TV, addressing the press while that white serval of his sat next to him with ears that were almost pinned back to her head. That was, until the moment Stark had put down the cards, declared himself Iron Man in front of a room of reporters and changed everything. The room had exploded. The serval’s agitation had vanished as she sat up to her full height to preen, soft pink tongue lapping innocently at her already pristine shoulder.   
  
“How much damage did Stark do?” Considering it’s 3 AM and Coulson’s sitting at his desk still, jacket off and tie loosened around his neck, Stark’s blown a crater for the sake of pretty fireworks, ignorant of everything that went up in the blaze. If he was watching from the outside, Clint would probably just call him an ostentatious fool and be done with it. Watching him from the inside, he tends to think the guy deserves to be taken down a peg. Or five.   
  
“Difficult to say. But the real problem is the fact that he still thinks he’s playing a game that follows rules he understands.”   
  
Clint might not understand all those rules yet himself, but he knows enough to know that Stark’s done more than painted a target on his own head, with this. The repercussions are going to come down on all of them. Clint crosses the floor, pulls the folded papers he kept in the inside of his vest out to lay down on the desk.   
  
“My paperwork. I thought I’d be sliding it under your door.”   
  
“Thank you.”   
  
Clint could leave, then, and he almost does, but it isn’t what he  _wants_. He can feel Maj’s agreement, concordance with the separation between what they both know is logical and the subtle warmth they know isn’t. Maj squirms, and Clint unwraps her from his leg to drape across his back. It gives him something to do with his hands.   
  
“I’d take a wild guess and say you’ve been at this since they made the announcement.”   
  
Ilsae drifts closer to Coulson, reaches up to settle her paws on his thigh. Even though he’s clearly still trying to hold everything in perfect structure, it’s clear they’re absolutely bone tired. Coulson finally drops the crumpled paper, shoves his computer keyboard back and actually looks at Clint.   
  
“I was there when it happened, at first. Director Fury made the decision to talk to Stark himself at that point and since there was more than enough of  _this_ …” He gestured at the paper, at the computer which Clint could now see was currently showing a running of the clip on a German news channel.   
  
“Seems like you could use a drink.”   
  
That at least got him almost laugh. “I’m pretty sure there’s not a day since I took this job that couldn’t have fallen under that heading.”   
  
Clint nods absently, weighing the words one more time for just a second before he speaks. “Got any hatred for Crown Royale?”  _That_  gets him speechless, a look somewhere between shock and interest. “Hey, I might not have done too much to my room here, but I’ve got some essentials.” And in their line of work, sometimes whiskey was an essential.  _Especially_ in  _his_  line of work. Maj curls all 8 feet of herself so tight around his chest he thinks she’s about to crack a rib.   
  
Finally, Coulson nods his assent, and that’s more than good enough. He goes for the whiskey, comes back with it and two glasses, and they drink until he’s smiling and Coulson doesn’t look quite so much like he’s been run over by a few dozen trains. By the time Clint gets up to leave it’s 7 AM, and though Coulson hasn’t gotten any more work done, he doesn’t seem to mind quite so much. Maj had spent the last couple of hours curled around the heat of a pole lamp, and when she slithers down she slows during the descent, finally stretches her neck out until it’s just inches from the bobcat stretched out on the floor, and she tips her head just a little in farewell. Ilsae purrs, and Clint doesn’t bother to hide his own smile as he leans against the doorframe once again.   
  
“I’ll stop by tomorrow to see about where I’m off to next?”   
  
“That’d be great.”   
  
“Goodnight, sir.”   
  
“Coulson.” He’s already halfway turned to leave, but when he catches  _that_ , Clint turns back. Coulson isn’t drunk by a long shot, but he’s had just enough that the careful constraints he keeps himself under have faded, and it’s just  _him_  looking out of hazel eyes that tonight seem just a little more green. “If it’s just us, there’s no need for…it’s just Coulson.”   
  
As he walks down the hallway, he can tell by the way Maj stretches up eagerly toward even the fluorescent lights they pass that she is pleased.   
  
\------------------------  
  
The picture in the file shows a boy of about 14. His dark hair is ruffled with the wind, the feathers of the hawk that perches on his shoulder equally disheveled. They’re both sighting a shot, bow string already drawn tight, the boy’s face a mask of concentration. It’s one of the only early pictures S.H.I.E.L.D. has, and Coulson’s seen it more times than he can count. He can’t help but flip through the file occasionally, maybe a little more occasionally these days than he strictly should, but his excuse is the same every time, and he gives it to Ilsae when she puts one paw down on the page he’s trying to turn.   
  
“If they’ve come across new information, it’s my business to know. I’m responsible for him, Ilsae, if I send him into a situation where he’s in greater danger than I realize, that would be on me.”   
  
“You’re snooping, Phil. Hide it behind whatever words you like; you’re snooping.”   
  
Maybe he was, a little, but could she honestly blame him? When S.H.I.E.L.D. had made contact with Clint Barton he’d been fresh from busting out of some villain’s clutches, the identity of which was either unknown or actually above his clearance, a fact which had the potential to be both impressive and disturbing. So little was known about how he’d gotten there, what had happened to him while he was held. They knew only a few things for certain.   
  
He’d left the circus sometime after his 15th birthday, fallen off the grid for a couple of months before he started appearing in mercenary circles. His kind of skills were highly prized, after all, and even at a young age there’d been no one like him. Even if he did put in a staggering amount of practice, it seemed hard to believe that anyone else could’ve achieved the same results even if they had worked just as hard. He had the touch and the eye for it, and that couldn’t be duplicated. So he had worked, woven in and out of the shadows and finally landed himself in far over his head in the world of heroes and villains. Not that they thought Clint had really realized that, initially, though since their intel was fuzzy they couldn’t be sure. They just knew that he’d been held in Bangkok some six months, and that they’d met him not long after he made it out. He’d been working his way up through lower level government ranks before Coulson had swept in to recruit him into S.H.I.E.L.D.   
  
Almost every picture taken of Clint and Maj from their circus days showed his daemon giving him the aid of her razor sharp hawk eyes or warming his neck with the lush fur of a red panda. Even the two that showed her clenched tight around his arm in the form of a cobra, there’s something in her fluidity that lends everything about her an air of ease. Coulson can probably count on one hand the number of times he thinks he  _might_  have seen her fully at ease, and he wouldn’t even need to use very many fingers.   
  
He reaches out, tries to push Ilsae’s paw aside only to have her growl low in her throat.   
  
The look he gives her would probably wilt just about anyone else. “You can’t tell me you’re not curious.”   
  
“I  _can_  tell you that if we ever want his trust, stalking his employee file isn’t the way to get it.” She bares her teeth, warning. She  _will_  nip him; there’s no doubting it.   
  
Even if he hates losing, sometimes, he’ll concede a little ground. Especially with her. Sometimes, she just might know best. Possibly. Frustrated, he pulls his hands back, lets her bat the cover closed and lay down on it to glower at him.   
  
“So how would you suggest that conversation go if something happens? ‘I’m sorry that I wasn’t aware of the potential danger for you in this mission; my daemon insisted I shouldn’t do my job?”   
  
Her eyes narrow, the growl deepening until it sounds like it couldn’t possibly be coming from a cat her size. “There’s a not so fine line between doing your job and being too afraid to wait until you can ask him a damn personal question.” The growl tapers, Ilsae seeing something in his shift back into his chair that takes her off the offensive. “I’m not saying you have to stop wanting to know. We have to be patient.”   
  
Patience is something that, for better or worse, he knows quite a bit about. Half his job is spent waiting for a potential mark to show his powers or his inventions, waiting for a discovery, waiting to make contact, waiting for contact to be approved...dozens of forms of waiting, never ending.   
  
Patience. Right. If he needs to, he can muster up even more of it for this, too, because with the life he’s living, Clint’s just about the only almost friend that he’s got. In and of itself, really, that should be enough. Everything else he can’t help but want when Barton relaxes enough to smile at him really should be shoved back altogether.   
  
He’ll probably remember that for as long as it takes Barton to get back from his latest deployment in Maine.   
  
\------------------------  
  
“I’m gone for two weeks, and  _this_  is what you do? Jesus, Coulson.” Clint’s deliberately as teasing as he can muster, but even then he can hear the fear in his own voice. He’d steadied himself as much as he could, but there was no way he could even it out all the way, not after the afternoon he’d had. He’d come to check in at the main headquarters, finished up the last details on the paperwork for Coulson before swinging by his office to hand them over only to find that Coulson was gone. On top of that, not just gone for the day but gone, in the hospital hopefully recovering from a concussion. Hopefully, as if there was a chance he might just be…  
  
“Sorry to disappoint.” His voice is a little scratchy with disuse, but he sounds alright. Alive and well at least, and  _fuck_ , that’s enough. For once in their lives Maj truly takes the initiative, takes advantage of his shock and slithers down his leg to fall to the floor, only rising back up when she reaches the edge of the bed with railings just perfect to wrap her strong neck around and pull herself up. When she reaches out to touch her nose to Ilsae’s too dry one, Clint can feel the warmth seep through his body like it’s coated him from the inside. Maybe he can actually get his feet to move, get himself over to the bed to talk to him properly. Might help.   
  
So much has been creeping into his consciousness piece by piece, everything from how good this man looks when he’s not holding himself too uptight to how good he feels when he’s with him once he’s let that guard down, and all of it floods in on him now. Everyone looks fragile in hospital beds and Coulson’s no exception. His eyes look grey today, thin somehow under the lights, and Clint wants irrationally to cup his cheek, to press a kiss to the wound on his forehead and see if he’s got a fever. If that cut gets infected, on top of everything else…  
  
Clint wraps his fingers painfully tight around the bedside rail. It seems like the most harmless thing he can do with his hands, since taking Coulson’s is out of the question.   
  
“Seriously, boss, what the hell were you doin’ out there? The guys not doin’ their job?” Because if someone skipped out on Coulson when they should’ve been watching his back, he will come down on them so hard they won’t even know what hit them, rank be damned.   
  
“I was a field agent before I got this promotion, you know. I can actually look out for myself.” It could’ve carried a different weight, it had the potential, but Coulson’s voice has more dry humor than honest irritation, and Clint lets himself smile a little.   
  
“Yeah, I can tell.” Honestly, the thought that he’s got so much training and someone still managed to leave a gash like that on his head and knock him out cold is more than a little disturbing. “Really, what happened? Did…were you-“  
  
“Difficult to say exactly. I know there were more than we expected; I was pulling the radio to call for help.” And clearly,  _that_ went brilliantly.   
  
Clint’s knuckles are actually starting to burn with the effort of holding on so tight. He’s lucky, really, that he doesn’t have any particular power in that department, because otherwise his skin might be splitting open.   
  
“I’m sorry. If I’d been back, I could’ve-“  
  
“No.” Despite the fact that he’s barely moved since Clint came in, much less moved his  _head_ , Coulson shakes his head feebly until Clint’s twitch forward makes him cut the motion off. “Don’t do that. I’m fine.”   
  
Yeah. Fine.   
  
At the foot of the bed, Ilsae lay listless across his feet, keeping them warm. Maj had buried her face somewhere in the ruff of fur near her neck, through the rest of her body still twisted away to rest separately. Something frustrated sparks in his chest, ridiculous jealousy at the thought that for all her hesitancy,  _she’s_  worked up the nerve for touch before he has. With most people’s daemons that might be a near constant truth, but it sure as hell isn’t for his.   
  
He swallows hard against the bite of envy, clenches his fingers on the plastic again and wonders briefly what he’d do if it cracked.   
  
“I didn’t even know if…they just told me you were in the hospital with a concussion. From what I’ve seen, that could’ve meant everything from fine to a whole lot of absolutely  _not_  fine.” He’d actually seen that kind of damage firsthand before. Some blows, people never woke up from. “Coulson…” It’s on the tip of his tongue, the urge to ask for things he isn’t sure he has the right to even mention. It’s one thing for them to be friends without really talking about it, about the fact that they have a relationship that isn’t defined by Coulson’s position as his superior. That’s an unspoken agreement, and it’s a whole different matter than one with words and spoken expectations, but considering how good he’s been at keeping his hands to himself, he was damn well bound to fail at  _something_. “Something like this happens, I think I have a right to know before I get home and hear it from the staff.”   
  
Maj doesn’t even hiss at the word ‘home’, doesn’t so much as raise her head. She’s busy scenting the air around Ilsae with her tongue, memorizing the feel and smell of warm fur.   
  
“The nurse actually came in here to tell me I was having a visitor.” Clint blinks at him, not sure at first how in the  _hell_  that’s connected to anything he just said. Coulson’s eyes close, something in him weary enough to sink back a little into his pillows. “Director Fury called but other than that…”  
  
No one had come. Not a damn one of them, just him. Everything he does around headquarters, the  _epic_  lengths he goes to to save Stark’s ass, and the man can’t be bothered to haul himself to a hospital room or at least send that aide of his, whatshername, and clearly no one else can either. Truthfully, though, most of them probably didn’t even know, and that says something all in itself.   
  
When his hands finally move, it feels utterly without his permission, like it really  _had_  just been his grip that had been making them behave and the minute it’s loosened he loses all control. He takes Coulson’s face in his hands and kisses him, just the simple, firm pressure of their lips against each other’s, and for a second he forgets that for so many reasons this is insanely stupid. He’s going to crash and burn, going to fuck up his job and the one person he thinks is actually his friend, but he tells himself fleetingly that he can’t really help it, because in the face of the relief the need to do something he desperately wants is irresistible.   
  
He’s just pulling back, his jumbled thoughts trying to center more firmly on how stupid he’s just been when Coulson’s hand reaches up to fist the sleeve of the filthy shirt he hadn’t taken the time to change, holding him in place. That hand’s still trailing an IV, and it can’t be comfortable to hold on that tight unless he just wants it that much. Clint licks his lips, closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see just yet, but maybe, maybe this wasn’t so stupid after all. 


	2. Chapter 2

Before, the longest relationship Clint was ever in lasted 4 months. This thing with Phil isn’t even that old, and already he knows it’s got more substance to it than he’s had anywhere else. He saw that coming in advance though, the possibility hovering before he ever made a move. Being with him is easy in a way that keeps well away from being trivial, something natural in it that dials down the tension he couldn’t help but carry everywhere he went.   
  
They’re taking it slow with this, even slower than they would on their own since he’s out of town so damn much of the time, but it’s working and it’s  _good_  and sometimes he can’t help but do things like stop and stare just because he’s allowed.   
  
It’s not long before Phil feels his eyes on him, a sixth sense that tugs the corners of his mouth to twitch into a smile. God, he loves that, that real smile Phil hardly ever gives but that he sometimes gets, so different from the bureaucratic one from work. Even  _that_  one usually only comes like pulling teeth, arduous and unpredictable. He’s reading his kindle one handed so he can keep the other arm slung over Clint’s shoulders, and Clint sighs and rolls his neck when those fingers start to trail absently through the hair at the base of his neck.   
  
On his lap Maj nudges his wrist, impatient. In her opinion, he gets several chances now to act like a stroked cat, but the arrows they’re making aren’t going to prepare themselves. Once she has his attention she bites down on the soft lid of the glass jar between his knees, her venom sliding smoothly down the sides. Once she’s done he pulls the top off carefully, dips a brush in it and selects an arrowhead. Hopefully he doesn’t have any paper cuts he doesn’t know about. Forget the poisoning itself, if his own daemon’s venom got to him he’s not sure he could ever recover from the ribs he’d crack laughing his ass off.   
  
“Whose idea was that?” Even Maj doesn’t jump at his voice anymore. She does, however, glare pointedly at Clint in case he has any ideas about giving the wrong answer.   
  
“Doubting my brilliance?” She hisses, and he can’t help but laugh because when it’s directed at him he can never see anything menacing about it, just remembers the way she looked doing it when they were both 5 years old and she had all the ferocity of a grizzly and the size of a large worm. “You absolutely should be. It was her idea, and it’s fantastic. These have gotten us out of some pretty tight spots.”   
  
“I can imagine.” There’s just a hint of gratitude in his voice, the same kind of warmth it’s held lately every time Clint’s come home safe, and it’s enough to make him fight the urge to put the arrowhead down before he’s finished. Phil worries about him now, maybe even more than he realizes. And the truth is, he loves it. He’s not used to having it, someone to worry, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t a novelty that’s ever gonna wear off. He’s got someone to come home to and maybe eventually lights that’ll be left on for him and dinners saved on plates like it matters that he wasn’t there. Thinking about it, there doesn’t seem to be any way that a bit of that is ever gonna sound less amazing and improbable.   
  
That night he’d cooked dinner, pasta shells with cheese and Italian sausage. Phil had leaned up against the counter beside him, made a sly remark about the possibility of finding cooking shows on Clint’s DVR and what everyone at work would say if they knew he actually knew his way around a kitchen. Natasha already knows because he’s cooked for her on a couple missions, but that wasn’t exactly the best time to bring that up, really, not when what he  _wanted_  to say was that he cooked for himself sometimes because he got bored with fast food and cold sandwiches, but that cooking for someone else was so much better. What he actually said instead was “Here, try it.”, scooping a shell out onto a wooden spoon. Clint watched the dart of his tongue, the soft sound of pleasure that came from his throat, and he damn near moaned with wondering what it would’ve felt like if he’d fed him from his fingertips instead, if Phil would’ve sucked his fingers into his mouth to make them clean.   
  
A clatter had shaken him out of it before he could get any more lost in those thoughts. Over at the kitchen table a chair finished tipping out of sight, taking an umbrella stand by the back porch door with it. Ilsae only glanced up for a second, something in her eyes utterly unapologetic before she crouched down for a more graceful pounce toward Maj’s teasing progression through the legs of the chairs. They were actually playing, Maj not even caring when Ilsae came down on her with soft paws and carefully sheathed claws. Just a few days before, the two of them had had a talk about still being careful, but seeing her like that was just one more reminder that every warning she gave these days was just a repetition of old fears. They’re happy, both of them, and when she’s with Ilsae even Maj can’t remember to be afraid anymore.   
  
The second Clint finishes applying his poison he lays the arrowhead down to dry on a tray he’d set out on the coffee table. He’s about to move then, about to be done with productivity even though he’s gotten pitifully little done, but after he sets the jar with is narrow strip of venom down on the tray, Phil beats him to it. The hand on his neck tightens against his nape and he reaches over with his right to turn Clint to face him. There’s a kind of firm deliberation to nearly everything Phil does and the slow slide and curl of his tongue is no different. Well, not in that sense, at least. It’s absolutely different in that it’s so much better, so much hotter than a dozen other frantic kisses he’s had in his life and he can’t help but moan low and filthy at the way it makes heat flare inside him. There’s reasons they’re taking this slow, dozens of them, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to drag Phil on top of him on this couch and let the man fuck him senseless. In the back of his mind, he tells himself that good things come to those who wait. Eventually. Or something like that.   
  
They kiss until he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to stop if he didn’t pull away, and he manages to get enough arrowheads done by the time he leaves that he’s out of venom. Leaving itself is far harder than it probably should be, and he pulls Phil up against him at the door and claims his lips until they’re just a little swollen. Swollen and wet and perfect, and  _God_  he doesn’t want to go.   
  
Phil’s lips linger at the corner of his mouth, both tender and teasing. “You don’t have to come in so early tomorrow morning.”   
  
His stomach sinks, and he wraps his arms just a little tighter around the other man’s shoulders. “Shipping me off again, boss?”   
  
“Keeping you here. Looks like your schedule’s free of travel for the next two weeks.”   
  
He can’t be positive Coulson did it for them, can’t even be positive Coulson did it at all, but it’s what he wants to think, so he goes with it. A year ago, he’d have said none of this was believable, not for him. Now, he’s tired of logical belief. Sometimes, it was better to just not ask any questions.   
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
Coulson’s used to being woken up at odd hours. With his job he’s just had to accept that it’s something that happens all the time. Tony blew something up? Hello, 2 AM phone call. Natasha killed someone she wasn’t strictly supposed to _again_? 4 AM, due to the time difference, of course. His life is a never ending stream of madness, and he considers getting three uninterrupted hours at a time to be an awesome achievement.   
  
Typically, though, it’s  _calls_  he gets. Or texts. Or emergency broadcasts. Someone actually there in person knocking on his door, that’s a lot rarer and it narrows the list to Fury(which will mean something of epic proportions is getting underway somewhere around the world) or the only other member of SHIELD who knows where he lives, the one who’s been gone for two weeks in Hong Kong with the Black Widow.   
  
Ilsae beats him to checking, padding quickly down the hall and across the carpet to sniff at the crack below the door.   
  
“It’s them; he’s been drinking.” He knows just how well she can smell it, the scent of whiskey sharp as a rasp to her sensitive nose. Her worry bleeds into his, and for a moment before his hand connects with the door knob, he’s almost sure he can smell it too.   
  
Clint’s right there, leaning heavy on the frame and pressed close enough to the door that he sways the tiniest bit when it opens. From her perch around his thigh, Maj hisses as her nose stops just short of bumping the wood.   
  
“Sorry to wake you.” He almost sounds it, too. His words aren’t slurred with the drink, but that honestly tells him all of nothing. Coulson’s seen him drunk,  _really_  drunk, but the man hides it behind being just a little easier with his smiles, just a little quicker with his jokes and if they didn’t know him well there’d be more than a few who’d never even wise up to it at all. Now, though, there’s something heavy on his words, a drag of something more weary than drugged, and Coulson’s reaching out to snag the fraying sleeve of Clint’s jacket.   
  
“It’s fine; you know it’s fine, but what are you-“  
  
“We got back a couple hours ago. I couldn’t stay there. I-“ The almost smile he was at least attempting when the door opened fades entirely, and there’s an unfamiliar uneasiness to the clench and release of his hand against the siding. “I’m sorry, I-“  
  
“No, no, don’t. I’m sorry, come in.” Even if it’s late, it’s enough. Clint’s shoulder’s sag on his way through the door, but he heads down the hallway toward the couch with the ease of someone who’s already started to learn his way around the furniture in the semi dark.   
  
Already, Coulson’s brain is zeroing in on all the information alone, everything from the time between the flight landing and Clint’s arrival(not a couple hours, more like four) to the possible status of the mission(successful with complications; it has to be. He’d have heard news sooner otherwise.), and he almost hates himself for it. He’s used to problem solving just like that, all categories and plans and practiced calm but on this he’s finally divided. Clint splits the line between logic and pure instinctive irrationality, and though he’s always been sure he could handle it just fine for just a moment he realizes why the government did their best to forbid this sort of thing.   
  
His throat burns on warring words, his lips for a moment opening around nothing in his indecision. Whatever he says first will mark his priority, for better or for worse, and once it’s said he won’t be able to take it back. When he rounds the corner Clint’s right there on the edge of the sofa that’s rapidly becoming his, head in his hands, and suddenly, it’s not hard at all. Clint’s hair is soft under his fingers, and he buries them deep as he pulls his head up. He’s careful, oh so careful because there’s dried blood there too, he can feel it under the tips of his fingers, jagged and badly healing and maybe two days old and even those thoughts fade when Clint’s eyes tilt up to his.   
  
“Tell me you’re alright.”   
  
His lips quirk up, eyes almost lighting in that all too practiced way. “Oh, I’m-“ Coulson’s hand was already moving before he started, eager to cover a smile he has no desire to see.   
  
“Don’t do that.” It’s one thing to shoot him something just a little fake when they’re fighting over whose turn it is to drive but not when Clint’s trusted him enough to come to him like  _this_  in the middle of the night. For that kind of trust to actually mean something, he can’t back up now. “You’re hurt, have you-“  
  
“I hate doctors.” It’s just stony enough not to brook argument, at least not now, not yet. Maj circles up Clint’s chest, looking for height the way she does when she’s nervous, and for a second Clint lets her bury her face just under the edge of his shirt. Coulson’s had to cultivate his own mix of patience and impatience, and though he’s itching to ask again he holds his breath and waits, finds the outlines of the cut again along Clint’s scalp and traces them. Really jagged, maybe a rock, maybe-  
  
“You need to call Charles." Clint mutters it under his breath, pulling away from Coulson's touch only far enough to give himself room to unwrap the cobra who kept shifting her grip higher and tighter. "Let him know he needs to get the team out to Hong Kong. Arcade's holed up in a jail cell there but I don't think it'll hold him even long enough for our extraction team to bring him back. Tasha tried; they told us we didn't have the authority to take him out of the country, which, by the way, if there's anything you can do about that it'd be awesome, cause I’m pretty sure we  _should_  have the authority and he's not the kind of person we want to be leaving with unsuspecting morons."   
  
 _Arcade._  Now that he heard the name, it made sense. SHIELD had sent the two agents out on a case the local government had suspected might be related to slave trafficking but that turned up a whole lot fishier on close investigation. No one was reappearing anywhere else, not even in back alleys or the lowest brothels. There were no bodies, no suspicious characters, no signs of struggle, just people in the same area of town that inexplicably vanished. From what he'd heard about the X-Men's troubles with him in the 90's, Arcade was always on the lookout for new victims for his games. His name had probably even popped on the SHIELD database under the circumstances, but he’d been so long absent from the world of villainy it seemed he'd gone unnoticed by everyone, Coulson included. Either he'd come back from as yet unknown circumstances, or the man just might be more insidiously patient than anyone had ever realized.   
  
Clint pulls his hand away from Maj’s last coil to push her aside and onto the back of the couch where she perches uneasily, half flared and uncertain, a disconcerting companion to Clint’s silence. Phil’s piecing it together, of course he is, but the gaps are still glaring, still pushing him to ask and keep asking.   
  
Sitting down next to Clint, he lets a few of the words go.   
  
“Your reports said nothing about any of this.” From the floor, Ilsae growls as she swats his leg hard enough to make him wince, hard enough that there’ll be blood. He doesn’t even bother to push her back; she’s right. It might be true, and he might even have a good point, but it sounds too much like work, too much like the voice of the boss instead of the voice of a lover and it’s not supposed to be about work right now, dammit, it’s supposed to be about Clint, just Clint.   
  
“Mostly not, no, and Natasha’s won’t either.” There’s a look he gets with his eye on a target, focused and sharp and ready but this looks like almost the opposite, a twisting mess of grim uncertainty. “Had to get a little involved. He was pulling his victims from card games, taking the winners. No one has any memory of it, though, so we’re not sure if he was wiping minds or if he changed up his lure every few days. Anyway, we were there undercover watching the game go down and this kid was working his way up to taking it; he was good, good enough to play them and good enough to have gotten himself into a game over his head. Couldn’t have been 18. I couldn’t watch him do it; I just couldn’t. Tasha, she was cursing me in Russian soon as I stood up, like I didn’t start gettin’ used to that the day I met her.” He might be managing to pull a little bit of his smirk back into place, but it doesn’t really count with his eyes still on the floor. “Anyway, I kinda broke cover, things got a little complicated.”   
  
Complicated he can deal with, God knows. He’s got  _Stark_  on the list of cats he’s supposed to be attempting to herd for fuck’s sake. No, there’s “I got pissed and blew up a few buildings” complicated, and that’s Tony all over, but Clint’s the soldier, the near perfect operative. He’s plenty apt to get in over his head, sure, but without all the fireworks.   
  
“Clint, complicated is Tony blowing up a vending machine because it wouldn’t give him coffee. You-“  
  
“I got in on the game. Wasn’t hard, I had guys teaching me how to hustle poker back when I was kid. I thought if we had someone on the inside…” He pulls a flask from his jacket, tips it back enough to catch what must be the last sip. “Jesus, I just couldn’t let him take that kid, you know? I mean it’s one thing, all the jobs I’ve had up until now. I go in, I make my shot, I’m done, and I guess I’ve always thought it matters in this abstract way, and maybe it makes up for a few of those jobs I took when I was too young to think it through, but it’s different, knowing this guy’s already got a body count and we’re supposed to sit at the bar and just keep drinkin’ while he takes in another one? I guess I just can’t do that; I’m sorry.”   
  
“Barton, for a SHIELD agent you’ve always been abnormally easy to handle. If you broke chain of command just long enough to get in position to take him down then it’s not really-“  
  
“We didn’t take him then. I went with him, back to the warehouse, figured I’d try to get a handle on whatever game he was running so we’d know what we were up against. Turns out the thing, it…he knocked everyone out, plugged ‘em into this machine that had you reliving your worst nightmares like levels on a game, starts with something not so bad and gives you time to work up. From what we’ve put together…I’m not sure if he burned the bodies or what the hell he did to them but as far as we can tell everyone that died got themselves killed inside the simulation; I’m not sure how it works, but you need to tell Charles everything. He needs to be prepared. If he’s got time to get back and set up again, they’ll have trouble.”   
  
His attention keeps catching on absolutely all of it, snagging him off in contrasting directions.  _You’re hurt, let me look at you, let me see you, what the hell did he do to you, why didn’t you tell me, Clint, you could have told me, you could’ve called me and I would’ve come, I would’ve sent you help, you idiot, how could you be so stupid you don’t just walk into the bastard’s hands, Clint, there’s protocol for this, you’re not a superhero you’re just…_  
  
Nothing. There’s no ‘just’, only a man who came to him but still won’t look at him, who’s had more fuel for worst nightmares in his life than most people ever come close to yet it’s obvious he’s not anywhere near wishing he could take his choice back. He just walked right into a trap because he couldn’t watch someone else do it, and he says it like it’s a choice anyone would make, like the only reason he’s never done anything like it before is because he’s just never had the right opportunity. He’s twisting the lid on the flask like it might give him a little more if he keeps playing with it and there’s a set his shoulder’s that all but screams ‘don’t, don’t feel sorry for me’, and Phil knows everything has gone flying right out of his hands because right then he’s certain of it, he loves this man.   
  
He might have even been able to say it, but Clint’s not exactly known for giving him much time to talk.   
  
“Look, I don’t really want to talk about it. I’m fine; he just knocked me out when I got there and Tasha pretty much patched that up, but we got back to headquarters and I realize I didn’t really think this through because all I thought was I’d take a cab here but I really,  _really_  don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He swallows, maybe against exactly everything he doesn’t want to say, and he mumbles so low the space between almost swallows the sound. “I just didn’t want to stay there alone.”   
  
“Ok.” It’s easier than he expects, not asking. There’s things, yeah, work things and personal things and  _if I ever get a chance to get my hands on that son of a bitch he’ll be sorry_  things, but the important thing, really, is the same thing that took his breath a little when Clint came in. He was alone, and he was fucked up, and he came  _here_ , like coming home. That’s enough, God, it’s enough.   
  
“Yeah?” Finally,  _finally_ , his eyes are almost smiling.   
  
“Yeah. Of course.” He reaches out to let his hand rest on Clint’s neck just for the sake of getting a hand on him, of feeling the way Clint always rises just a little into his touch. “Come back to bed with me. You should sleep.” Even right then when it makes so much sense, his nerves jangle, because technically he’s never had Clint in his bed before, not yet, not that he hasn’t thought about it plenty. He’s woken up in the middle of the night thinking about it, but mostly then it’s been thoughts of heat and bare skin and the way Clint moans, and he never let himself think quite as much about the other things, things like watching a guy that’s made a life out of keeping his eyes open relax enough to sleep, like waking up to his stupid jokes that just might be even more headache inducing before he’s gotten time to really think them through.   
  
Clint nods, and by the time they’ve made it down the hall and he’s tossed Clint a t-shirt and some sweatpants in the bathroom and they’re sliding under now cold sheets it seems so easy that it’s hard to still be nervous. There’s space between them at first, a hesitant gap that lasts until he molds around Clint from behind, arm around his waist and chin against his shoulder. There’s a murmured ‘thanks’ and something about warmth and how his sheets are the cold kind but now that he’s lying down the stress and the alcohol and the bone deep exhaustion are taking their toll, devouring his words. There’s just one kiss, lazy and sleepy and open, and when Coulson realizes he can still taste blood from a slit on Clint’s lip, he just lets it go. It might take him awhile(Ilsae would say far more than that) but sometimes, sometimes he can wait to be told.   
  
At the foot of the bed Ilsae makes a stuttering chatter, sounding almost more than ever like the wildcat she is, calling to kittens she’ll never have. Eventually, it works. Sometime just after Clint’s breath has evened out against the back of his hand Maj slides down from the bed frame, slinking across the comforter to coil tight between Ilsae’s paws.   
  
After they’re both sleeping, after at least an hour’s passed and the moon’s dipped low enough to make its way just right through Coulson’s window, Ilsae fills the silence with the sound of rough pink tongue across not quite smooth scale, licking gently at Maj’s old, ragged scars. Coulson can feel it too, the swelling urge to stroke and protect that’s damn near driving him crazy, and he reaches down without even looking to bury his fingers in her fur.   
  
“Yes. Good girl.”   
  
\---------------------------------  
  
Clint can count on one hand the times he’s actually woken up in someone else’s bed. For him it’s almost always either been hotels or he’s crept out in the middle of the night, not the least interested in letting his guard down with someone right behind him. Waking up with Coulson behind him is something else entirely.   
  
He’s so warm, Coulson’s arm still draped over his side, and though his head’s pounding a little in protest of last night’s alcohol nothing can really feel bad just then. Even the memories he just finished reliving at Arcade’s hands seem a distant thing, held at bay by the feel of Coulson against his back. Phil’s hard against him, he can absolutely feel it, a realization that sends a sharp jolt to his own cock. Even so Coulson’s utterly still, asking nothing of him though he knows from the somewhat unsteady fall of his breath on the back of Clint’s neck there’s almost no way he’s still asleep.   
  
He turns in Coulson’s arms without a word, one hand reaching up to cup Phil’s cheek as he pulls him in for a kiss. He  _is_ awake, and he kisses Clint with an unchecked fervor Clint’s never felt. Clint willingly shifts closer, letting himself be drawn in until he’s half on top of Coulson, his own rapidly hardening cock rubbing against Coulson’s hip with their movements in a way that’s going to start driving him a little crazy. Coulson’s hands fit tight against his hips, tugging him to grind down a little harder, and Clint breaks the kiss to bury his face against Phil’s neck, panting.   
  
“Fuck,  _fuck_ , Phil…”  
  
Quicker than Clint would’ve believed possible Phil flips them, caging Clint in below him with his body. His eyes are so dark with desire that Clint feels like his heart just might run itself to death. He drags his lips across Clint’s jaw with deliberation, punctuated by ragged breath that’s so perfectly hot against Clint’s throat.   
  
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?”   
  
It’s low and almost dark in a way that makes Clint’s skin chill, and he tips his head back to give Phil access to his neck.   
  
“That’s why you came to recruit us, isn’t it?”   
  
“You’ll never know.”  _God_  his tongue is amazing, hot over Clint’s pulse as it flicks between his lips after a kiss. He can’t help but imagine the feel of it on his chest, on his cock, and he groans, his right hand clenching in the sheets as his left grips harder at Phil’s neck.   
  
Phil controls the rhythm, keeps the roll of their hips slow and smooth even when Clint tries to jerk up against him. Clint can practically feel his mind evaporating, everything melting under heat and desire, but Coulson’s focus seems to be everywhere at once, on rhythm and kisses that leave them both gasping and the way his hands are smoothing up under his own t-shirt that Clint’s wearing, bunching up to pull over his head.   
  
For just a minute, Clint’s brought crashing back to reality. With the shirt gone it’s just Phil’s hands on his bare skin, on his back, and even though Clint knows he has to  _know_ , this is the first time he’s feeling it firsthand. Maj certainly isn’t the only one of them that came out of Bangkok scarred, and though he’s fairly sure pictures of what he looked like when the government picked him up after his escape are everywhere in his file, it’s just not the same. He’s so very damaged, and even if most of it isn’t external, the lines he’s forever crossed with give him a permanent physical expression.   
  
Clint can feel his fingers tracing them, trapped tight between Clint’s back and the mattress, and he takes a deep breath, eyes almost fully shut as he tries his best to keep his voice light.   
  
“Souvenir from Bangkok. I know, should’ve just gotten a tattoo, maybe one of those tribal designs or-“  
  
“Don’t.” There’s no hand over his mouth this time, but it’s the second time Phil’s read through him and cut him off at the pass, and honestly, he feels more relieved than sorry. He’s never let anyone in like this, not this far, partially because he never met anyone he wanted to trust and partially because no one’s ever tried, ever gave any indication that under his skin was somewhere they honestly cared to be. But here’s Coulson, unwilling to take shit from him even when it’s shit Clint’s half saying to make him feel better, and he’s not even quite sure what the hell he feels, but he’s never, ever wanted to be anywhere more than he does where is right now.   
  
He takes Phil’s shirt in his hands, jerks it up with a muttered ‘off’ that gets him a soft laugh, and then it’s only a matter of shoving loose sweatpants off both of them and it’s done, they’re finally pressed against each other skin on skin. The shift and pull of the muscles usually hidden by Phil’s suit is fascinating, and he tugs Phil’s head in position to put his lips right next to his ear so he can murmur something about how he wants to lick every fucking inch of his chest. The exact words are lost to him even right after he says it, distracted by the way Coulson answers by pushing Clint’s thighs apart to settle just a little closer between them.   
  
There’s no time for anything more than this, and that’s absolutely alright because the slide of them together is perfect, Coulson’s cock grinding slick and so hard against his. Coulson gives in and loses his careful tempo, resting on one arm over Clint, the other hand palming Clint’s ass in a move that’s half handhold half grope and,  _God_ , it’s excellent. Clint comes first, legs wrapping around Coulson’s waist as his body molds him around to try to draw him even closer, to take him in. Coulson’s not far behind him, and the cry he makes with his head tucked in against Clint’s shoulder is enough to make Clint’s whole body shiver.   
  
The thought floats through his head that this, just rubbing off against each other it was still the best sex he’s ever had, and he really, really should’ve been doing a hell of a lot of this. Panting, Coulson turns his head just enough to lap lightly at Clint’s collarbone, humming contentedly.   
  
“We need to feed you before I take you to medical.”   
  
He’s not going to medical, not if he can help it, but everything about that moment shoots that solitary thought down easily. If they’d done this when he came to SHIELD, it wouldn’t have been  _this_ , it’d have been the kind of fucking Clint’s had his whole life and not that it’s been bad, but this is something different entirely, something he wants to keep.   
  
Clint rubs Phil’s back absently, his eyes already shutting.   
  
“Can’t hear you. Sleeping.”   
  
Phil smiles against his skin, settling in more comfortably against Clint’s chest even as he talks. “You’re going to medical.”  
  
“I’m  _going_  back to sleep.”   
  
When he cracks his eyes open a few seconds later in the comfortable silence that follows he can see that around the edges of Coulson’s excellent shades, it’s just growing light. On the footstool at the end of the bed, Maj is wrapped around Ilsae the way she usually wraps around Clint, completely engulfing the bobcat. For once, Ilsae actually looks small. The cat’s purring rumbles out from her chest, a low, soothing background sound he hadn’t even noticed before. It’s comforting in a way he never would’ve imagined it could be, and it’s to that sound that he falls back to sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of chapter notes aren't about trigger-y things or anything, they're just about stuff that'd be spoiler-y for fic if I put it up here, ^^

Before he can have time to stop himself, Coulson flings the file down on Fury’s desk.  It slaps down across the mess of papers, sending a couple sheets of what look like medical reports wafting off the desk to brush across Raina’s ears.  Even sprawled on the floor at Fury’s feet she’s a magnificent, imposing thing, a truly massive timber wolf with fur like light smoke and deep brown eyes.  Ilsae’s not scared of her, not the way the daemons of the young agents usually are, but even though she’s known her for quite a while now she tends to keep her distance.  She eases herself into a crouch next to Phil’s ankles, eyes still absently tracking the movement of the paper as Raina gives a soft growl and shakes her head, knocking it fully to the floor. 

 She’s fazed by little, currently just barely short of openly disinterested, and the look Fury’s giving Coulson isn’t too many shades better. 

 “I don’t recall hearing about any new activity to warrant this.” 

 “There hasn’t been any.  I’ve been compiling this recommendation for you for some time now.”  If he doesn’t talk faster, doesn’t make himself keep going, even with _his_ nerves he’s never going to make it through this conversation.  “I realize on the surface he may seem an unconventional choice, but if you’ll look at all the information in the file you’ll see he’s a perfect fit.  His skills are unique and unsurpassed, and his creativity in continuing to better his chosen weapons is impressive.  As a member of the initiative with more R &D budget at his disposal, I’m sure he’ll have some impressive ideas.  While there is the matter of questionable kills in his past, in the opinion of myself and every agent he’s worked with that’s ever filed their paperwork on joint missions that he is trustworthy.  More importantly,-“

 While he talked Fury had flipped the file open, and he breaks Coulson’s stride by dropping it back to the desk with the same force, open this time to show a picture of Clint with Maj wrapped around his shoulders, collecting an arrow from a fallen mark.  There’s blood already coating his fingers, and his eyes are dark and blank in a way that’s cold enough to make most people shiver.  It tears at Coulson’s chest the way that picture always does because it came from his earlier days, days when he went to the highest bidder and he’s young, can’t be more than seventeen.  There’s kills that haunt him, Coulson knows, he’s glimpsed it, and everything he knows about Clint and Maj both tells him that with the way they look in that picture, that was probably one of them. 

 Still, Coulson’s risen to his position for good reason, and he doesn’t flinch.  He can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at that, enough to help steady him a little more.  On the floor, Ilsae shuffles just a little closer, the warm press of her against Coulson’s leg a grounding influence. 

 “You do realize what you’re asking me, here?  You’re asking me to put Agent Barton-“

 “With all due respect, sir, I’d like to remind you that I’ve never shown favoritism to Barton,” Almost totally true.  Almost.  He worked a little harder to get him into medical, but that was half his own desires and half extra work he’d have had as Barton’s handler anyway.  He did the best he could to keep his heart separate, because he knew the consequence of failure.  If he couldn’t do this, someone else would, and regardless of competency there wasn’t a single other person in the building besides Natasha that he’d trust with Clint’s life.  “-on the contrary I give him the missions he’s best suited for regardless of the level of threat, and-“

 “Agent, you misunderstand me.  I’m not suggesting Barton’s unqualified or that his only way into this program is his connection to you.”  Fury leans forward on his desk, his good eye studying Coulson with such intensity he has to take a breath.  “I’m asking how well you’ve thought this through, if you’ve considered whether this is a question you honestly want to come to me and ask.  There is no question about his qualifications; he clearly has the skills and the drive the initiative requires, but if I approve this appointment, he will no longer be our secret weapon.  He will be front and center, known worldwide, and putting aside for a moment the likelihood of shortened life expectancy for any given member of this team, do you _really_ think that the people he escaped from wouldn’t still be interested in taking him back?  By all accounts Barton survived that encounter because he never gave them what they wanted, and I highly doubt they’ve ceased to want it.” 

 All true, all absolutely true, and all why Phil wanted to get this over as fast as he possibly could.  He’s given this a hell of a lot of thought, and it always comes back down to the same things.  He does the job he does for one very simple reason, and it’s got nothing to do with pay or secrets or a desire to climb the ladder.  He worked to get to where he is because he’s not a hero and he knows it, even if it’s all he grew up wanting to be.  There’s nothing special about him, not like that at least, but this job of looking out for them and making sure the world always has them, _this_ he can do.  It might not be quite the same, but he’s shielding people in the only way he can- by making sure those that can save them are there to do it. 

 Clint Barton is damaged, so selfless when he works with a team or a partner that it tends to go far past reckless, ready to kill when he needs to be and eager to save those in danger every chance he gets.  He’s exactly the kind of hero the world deserves, and Phil can’t let himself be selfish.  Sure, he could’ve kept his mouth shut, kept Clint as a field agent forever and maybe, _maybe_ kept him a little safer, but it would’ve been wrong and he’d know it.  The world deserves Clint, and just as important, Clint deserves the chance at redemption Coulson can see that he thinks he’ll never earn. 

 He can’t be selfish, even though Fury’s giving him the perfect chance. 

 “The world needs him, sir.”  Saying the words bolsters him, and his voice rises just a little from the hush he hadn’t quite realized it was slipping to.  “It’s my recommendation that Agent Barton be offered a place in the Avengers Initiative.” 

 Fury stares him down for a full minute, fingers steepled.  Finally, _finally_ he nods, flipping the file shut with a finality that should make Coulson feel _less_ lightheaded.  The nod he gives is companionable but separated somehow, like he’s already half talking to himself though Coulson’s still there. 

 “He’ll be an asset to the team, as will the rapport he’s been building with the Black Widow.  I’ll speak to him when he gets back from the Philippines.” 

 “Thank you, sir.” 

 With Coulson’s hand on the door, Ilsae already slipping out between the crack, Fury’s voice chases after him. 

 “I hope you know what you’re doing, Coulson.” 

 At the moment, he’s going to his office and locking the door. 

 It’s not far, just a level down and two hallways over, and at this hour of night there’s hardly anyone stirring down there.  A good thing, because if anyone had stopped him, he’s not sure he’s in the mood to politely tell them he doesn’t have the time, and strictly speaking, he should’ve been home at least about six hours ago.  He shuts the door behind him so quick it’s just short of slamming, finally lets his shoulders sag as he leans his back against it on his way down to the floor.  Everything from the dark to the sudden silence feels oppressive, and the first few breaths he takes with his face in his hands are a struggle. 

 Ilsae sidles up between his bent knees, cheek knocking lightly against his forehead in a way that’s usually comforting, though the yowl that follows is anything but.  He can feel her anxiety, their fear mingling together into a greater whole.  Her second yowl is a little louder, more insistent and frightened, and the dig of her claws into his chest as she raises up to tug on him actually helps stabilize his breath. 

 “I had to do it, Ilsae, you know that.  It’s the right thing; he deserves this.”  _Even if it kills him.  Even if **I’ve** just killed him._  

 She draws away from him, claws snagging on the fabric of his shirt before she starts to pace. 

 “How will we protect him now, Phil?  We promised we’d watch their backs, how do we-“

 “Don’t ask me that, you know I can’t promise-“

 “Fury’s right you know, what if they find him again, we’ve seen what they did to both of them, it’s a miracle they lived, what if-“

 “So you’re done telling me to keep my nose out of his past, then?  Is that it?  What do you suggest, that I read through everything for the thousandth time, that I-“

 “He’s been through enough, he’s _happy_ now, and-“

 “Don’t you think I know that?”  He spits the words out loud and harsh, enough to finally silence her.  Her frantic pacing ceases immediately, one paw rising close to her chest as she flinches away from him with a sharp hiss.  “It’s always you that reminds me, Ilsae.  If I want his trust, I have to trust him first.  This choice has to be his.  I’d have been doing him a disservice if I didn’t ask.”  He’s quieter then, softer, soothing like he used to be when they were young and her quick temper burned out and left her frazzled.  When he holds his hand out to her she takes the invitation, comes back to nestle against his chest and let his fingers rake through her fur as he holds her close.  “You know I’m right.”

 “I know.”  The silence is still so heavy, and he waits it out, counts the slightly rapid rise and fall of her ribs as he waits for her to tell him the rest, to get it all out now, while it’s fresh.  He can still feel the tension in her frame, muscles taunt with fear and worry and the certainty that this _has_ to be at least a little out of their hands, that this is one time they absolutely _can’t_ put Clint first, not in the way she usually wants. 

 Whatever she might be ready to say, it’s cut off by the vibration of Phil’s phone in his pocket.  With the angle he’s sitting at it shuffles out of his pocket, tumbling to the carpet to rattle around against the door.  Phil blinks at the intruding light of the screen as he picks it up, barely has time to feel the jolt as he sees the ten digit number in place of a name on the caller ID before answering.  Typically an employee ID number could mean anyone of the agents he’s handled, but this one he memorized what seems now like a lifetime ago.

 As soon as it connects, Clint’s already talking before he can say hello. 

 “Do you know what I never realized?” 

 Phil shuffles to sit more comfortably against the door, Ilsae still cradled close with his left arm and the phone in his right.  Despite everything, already he can feel the smile tugging at his lips.  “Enlighten me, Barton.” 

 “Exactly how many-how should I say this?  Would ‘houses of ill repute’ be the appropriate term?”  He can hear the sounds of the islands going on around him, the calls of a market place and the murmurs of tourists, and he closes his eyes and doesn’t take the bait yet, lets him talk a little longer because even talking about prostitutes, his voice is more soothing than he’ll probably ever know.  “I mean, this place is crawling with ladies of the night…and morning, and afternoon, and seriously, I haven’t been propositioned this many times since-“

 “This sentence had better end with how you’ve turned down each and every one of them.”  He knows Clint has to hear the smile in the tone of threat he tries for but can’t quite manage, and really, that only makes the smile spread easier.  Even _if_ he didn’t know Barton was baiting him, he’d have found it hard to worry.  For the past month Clint’s come home with him every night he possibly could, and while he doesn’t have words outright, doesn’t even really have any kind of verbal commitment, he’s got enough.  He knows the way Clint kisses him good morning, every morning, knows the shift of his weight in close and the look in his eyes that’s just a little more open before he’s had a chance to fully wake up. 

 No matter how many others he’s been with, no matter where he goes, no matter how or where he looks, Clint cheating isn’t something that worries him at this point. 

 “Well, I mean, I hate to be rude.”

 “You do realize SHIELD is a government agency and therefore you’re expected to conduct yourself with certain standards of behavior on missions?  Do you _want_ to hear all the ways I could find to write you up?”

 “Hey, _hey_ , not fair.  I wasn’t calling for _Agent_ Coulson.  Just thought I’d give my boyfriend a call, but if-“

 “And talk to him about prostitutes when you’re halfway around the globe?  Smooth.”

 “Nah, that was just a fun fact.  The _point_ was-hang on.”  He could hear the phone shuffle against his shoulder, caught bits of a conversation between Clint and a woman with very poor English, though it sounded like he was trying to order dinner.  A minute or so later the phone jostled again, and Clint gave an exaggerated moan. “Fried banana on a stick.  God, this shit is amazing.  We need to have these for dinner when I get home.”

 “That’s a dessert.” 

 “ _Dinner_.”  He moaned softly around another bite, an utterly deliberate tease, and Coulson tipped his head back against the door, letting out a slow breath.  The sound made him feel buzzed, a sharp tingle chasing over his skin.  It was too like the sound he’d made last Friday with Coulson inside him, spine arching tight as his hands scrabbled at the sheets like the pleasure was just too much, like no matter how he held on he’d still be spinning. 

On the other end, Clint tries to pull them back on track.  “Where was I?  Right, the point was, I was calling to say it is three o’clock in the fucking morning, and your ass better be in bed, because if you’re still at the office, I will hurt you.” 

 “I’m not sitting at the desk.  That should count for something.”  Not that sitting on rough office carpet was particularly restful.  Then again, it wasn’t as if he was going to be getting more done tonight.  It really _would_ be better all around if he could scrape himself off the floor and go home, but that would involve first scraping himself off the floor.  Bolstering himself a little more with Clint’s voice sounded like a good idea first. 

 “Hey, Phil.” 

 “Hm?” 

 “You ok?”  Maybe he’d heard it in the bit about not being at the desk, the first serious thing he’d said since he answered the phone.  Maybe he heard it there or he’d heard it all along or he’d called knowing like some kind of sixth sense, whatever the truth, it warmed him to the core, but he absolutely didn’t want to answer. 

 “I’m fine, Clint.” 

 “Mmhm.”  Clearly, another bite of banana.  “Tell me another one.  Bad day at the office, huh?  Fury riding your ass?”

 “No, everything’s fine.”

 “Good; I prefer he stays the fuck away from your ass.”  He pauses for a bit just long enough to hear Coulson’s soft laugh.  “Is he all over _my_ ass?  Cause he needs to understand, when I’m told I have permission to shoot-“

 “No, no you’re fine, everything’s fine, I’m just tired, Clint.  Long day.”  Sort of vaguely true. 

 “Will you just go home already?  I promise you, that place will not fall down without you.  I mean, some days it might, but enough’s enough, and I am not there to bodily drag you.  Well, not today.  Think I only need a couple more here before I can wrap this up.” 

 “Yeah?”

 “Yeah, pretty sure.”  Even on the phone, with them, most of the time silence is comfortable, an easy, familiar thing.  Coulson can picture him, probably finishing his banana, maybe his eyes catching on some action in the market or a solitary cloud or maybe even his mark.  He drops his chin on Ilsae’s shoulder where she’s still clinging to him, resting his eyes while he waits for Clint to come back to him. 

 “…you sure you’re ok?”

 No, no he isn’t.  He’s something just short of mortally terrified, and even if it _is_ the right thing there’s so much of him that still feels what he’s done is just short of throwing Clint out for slaughter, a solitary man among a world in which he will always be the least, physically anyway.  He knows it isn’t true, knows there’s Natasha and Clint’s not helpless and a dozen other rational thoughts, but they’re not always easy to come by.  The urge to have Clint in his arms is painful. 

 “Just come home safe.” 

 “Always.”  So lighthearted, like he’s never done anything less, like he never could.  “Now go home.” 

 “I give the orders, Barton.”

 “What happened to that conversation we had about boundaries?  I told you, I didn’t call to talk to my boss, I c _alled_ -“

 “I’m going, I’m going.”   In a minute, once he gets his feet under him.  “Call me tomorrow?”

 “Absolutely.” 

 “Goodnight, Clint.” 

 “I better not come back and have Tasha tell me you slept on the floor.  She _will_ tell on you, you know.  I have powers of persuasion.”  With that, he hangs up, the screen lighting so bright again that Phil has to squint, his eyes already having readjusted to the dark.  He swipes his thumb across the screen, wiping it just a little clearer to watch Clint’s ID number fade from the screen. 

 He swallows, the goodbye he’d _like_ to have said still hovering in his throat until Ilsae turns, bumping her head up under the hand still holding his phone. 

 “You should tell him.” 

 “It wasn’t the right time; not over the phone.”  Granted, he’s used the excuse that it wasn’t the right time a dozen times already, but _this_ time, at least it’s legitimate.  When he tells him he loves him, he wants to be able to watch his eyes, to see for himself what it does to him, if what it pulls to the surface is joy or fear.  That first time he just needs to say it to his face, to touch him and kiss him and pull his courage just a little tighter together because of how right it all feels.  Not like this, not on the spur of the moment because he’s scared, not with thousands of miles between them.  Clint has to know he means it, means it like he’s never, ever imagined he could. 

 “Come on.”  Standing up makes his back hurt, reminds him that he’s a ridiculous amount of hours past his last hot shower.  Home really, really does sound like a good idea.  “Let’s go home.” 

 When he leaves, he doesn’t even bother to take his briefcase home with him, just locks it in his office and stuffs his keys in his pocket. 

 -------------------------------

 “Did you have something to do with this?” 

From her perch clinging to the bits of the climbing wall that trailed all the way onto the ceiling, Natasha doesn’t even bother to look at him.  All her concentration’s on her fingers and the placement of her feet, and it shows in the slack rope that she honestly doesn’t need.  She wears it for Coulson; it’s the only way to shut legal and medical up and make his life a little easier. 

 “You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”  Her next handhold is precariously far, and as she kicks off to reach it the silvery black fox on the floor below her skitters across the floor to keep even with her, scrambling backwards as he watches her with unblinking intensity.  They’re not standing too close, but still Maj inches up just a little higher on Clint’s chest, pulling her tail up around his waist and out of reach.  She’s cordial enough with Nicolai and it’s been months since she flared at his presence, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to get close enough to let the little fox sniff her.  Like she’s told Clint before, he’s sharp and pointy and too crafty to be trusted.  Usually, Clint follows that with a gentle knock to the back of her head and a murmur of ‘ _Yet._ You don’t trust him _yet_.’

 Clint waves the papers in the air in her general direction, not that she’s ever, ever going to look. 

 “The Avengers initiative.  Heard of it?” 

  _That’s_ enough.  She barely pauses a heartbeat before she lets her feet drop, swinging forward to orient herself before she lets go and finally makes use of the rope to rappel down to the floor.  She unclips herself, dusts her hands and then she’s coming to his side to yank the papers from his grip.  Her eyes are narrowed as she scans it, and Clint watches for any hint of recognition, of triumph, anything that’ll tell him her part in all of this.  

Like it often is, her poker face is up and there’s no way he’s gonna catch a damn thing. 

 “Fury’s asking you to join the team?”

 “See, I get the feeling you know a hell of a lot more about this than me.  I’ve heard of it in theory; I know they wanted Stark, but as for all this talk of a ‘team’, I’m not really sure who we’re talking about.” 

 “Neither is Fury.”  She flips through again, thumb fast on the corners like she’s looking for something that just isn’t there.  “Stark’s a potential piece, and no matter how much Fury says his attitude’s going to keep him out don’t believe a word of it.  If you ask me, Tony’ll be brought in whether he wants to be or not.  SHIELD has eyes on other possibles, a couple I know of and probably more that I don’t but I’d never heard your name mentioned and considering I got these same papers a few weeks ago, that might be something they’d have thought to mention.   So point being, Clint-“  She presses the papers back into his hand, all the way to his chest.  “-I didn’t tell them to take you.” 

 Considering she was the only partner they’d ever had him work with and she’d just recently come back from spending time half babysitting Stark, she’d basically been his first and only guess.  Their methods were different, everything about them from their range to their tactics, but they’d fit together right from the beginning and he’d come to love working by her side, even when they drove each other a little crazy.  Hell, in the meeting Fury’d even brought her up directly, said it hadn’t escaped their notice that when he was with her, he had more of a tendency to break protocol, to go off script and do something crazy.  It wasn’t her influence, and half the time it had more to do with the kind of missions they sent them on than even Natasha herself, but when it came right down to it, his instincts for protecting those he cared about were so much more highly developed than those that had anything to do with survival.  In his experience, people that gave a damn about him were few and far between.  That was sure as hell worth a lot more trouble than worrying about his own hide. 

 “What did you tell him?”

 “Hm?”  He’d been caught up in his own thoughts, too distracted by nagging memories of Fury at his desk spelling out all the reasons why they were prepared to make this offer.  He’d pointed out that as far as superheroes went, he was pretty sure he didn’t fit the qualifications.  Fury’d told him it wasn’t up to him to decide whether or not he fit, just whether or not he’d accept.  Just then, he’d been split.  He’d almost answered right off, said yes for the same reason he’d gotten himself in the card game, the same reason he’d spent six months getting tossed around in a concrete cell.  He’d made more bad choices in his youth than most people make their whole lives.  If he could use everything he’d trained for to save a few lives now…how could he have the offer to do something _right_ laid out in front of him and not take it? 

 He folded the papers twice, shoved them hard down in the pocket of his cargo pants.  Coulson might cringe if he actually ended up filing that shit, but it’d flatten.  Eventually. 

 “I don’t know, Nat.  Need to talk to Coulson.”  There was too much he didn’t know here.  He knew at one time Coulson’s name had been tossed around for handler of this group of trained monkeys but he wasn’t positive that was the case, and if this detail would have him being shipped off to some other underground base God knows where, well…

 Heroism and all, it just might not be worth it.  The thought made him feel a little sick, more than a little guilty because if that was his reason to say no and he _said_ no, it’d be nothing but selfish, selfish and proving everything at the back of his mind right that said that clearly Fury was crazy because he wasn’t a hero, he wasn’t a goddamn hero he was a killer and those two things could never, ever coincide. 

 For just a second, _just_ a second, she raised her eyebrows at him. 

 “You think he’ll disagree?”

 “I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure joining a secret organization _inside_ a secret organization is something I should, oh I don’t know, mention?  What, you think he knows about this?” 

 “I…think it’s none of my business.”  Nicolai circled her feet like a moon in orbit, and when she stepped away to chalk her hands again, Clint could hear her muttering down to him under her breath in Russian.  He couldn’t catch a damn word, but then again, it wouldn’t have mattered if he had.  _Russian_.  If he was going to spending even more time around her, it just might be worth the time investment to learn it.  Very, very quietly. 

 “Nat.  _Nat._ ”  He half followed Nicolai’s orbit, all the way to the rock wall so he could lean and dip his head to forcefully catch her line of sight even though she tried to keep her eyes down.  “You do realize I will stay here and pester you until you tell me what you know, don’t you?  Granted, I feel like watching your back for the past few months has kind of earned me-“

 “Oh please, keep your tally straight.  You owe _me_.” 

 Entirely possibly, but he pushed on anyway.  “You forgetting Chile last month?”

 “No, but you’re forgetting Alberta.” 

 Damn, she was right.  Canada.  Not his favorite recent mission.  Nice people, mostly, but the crazed scientist had kind of ruined the trip for him. 

 “ _Natasha_ , please?”

 “Despite what you may think that voice achieves, you’re not actually a four year old.” 

 “C’mon, have a heart, I just-“

 Exasperated, Nicolai yipped with a fury that somehow always managed to sound menacing despite its pitch, and her eyes finally snapped back up to fully meet his. 

 “Look, all I know is that Fury had you on a short list-“

  “Oh so when you said my name wasn’t on the list, you actually meant-“

 “I a _ctually_ meant exactly what I said; pay attention.”  With her, no threat was idle.  Unless he shut up, she wasn’t about to finish.  “You were on a short list.  He cut you, said it had more to do with conflict of interest than qualifications, and now he’s asking you anyway.  That’s it, that’s all I know, but I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to assume Coulson had his hands in this, do you?” 

 No.  No, it didn’t sound like too much of a stretch at all.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, someone’s question in a comment got me thinking, maybe in end notes I should make a few comments on daemons when they’re introduced, just to…ramble and describe and show just why these choices ended up being what they are. 
> 
>  Fury’s Raina is big smoky white timber wolf girl, embodying fierce love of pack as well as the fact that when challenged from inside or out, he’s dangerous. The bonds he builds are strong and legitimate, but he’d break one for the sake of the whole, if he needed to. He’s a defender, a ready and willing force. 
> 
>  Natasha’s boy Nicolai is what’s usually called a silver fox, but they’re not really silver and they’re actually just a melanistic red fox, like a panther’s just a melanistic leopard. So he’s striking, jet black with the dusting of silver across his back that gives them their common name, and the characteristic white tip to his tail, but his beauty is really just a bonus. Foxes are brilliant, sneaky, vicious fighters and capable of great loyalty to family. 
> 
> …I’ll do my best to keep these kinds of bits short, because I can animal ramble for a long time if I let myself, lmao Soon, either tonight or tomorrow, I’ll go back and add a bit about cobras and bobcats, ^^


End file.
